You Don't Know About Me
by Scorpiokagamine
Summary: Immortal AU: Eren has always been on the run from his past, living day by day in constant fear of his actions. One day he happens upon an address and the memory, "If you ever need help, com to this address." So, needless to say, he does, expecting to see an old friend. What he doesn't expect to see is his past, in the form of Levi. How will this all play out? Love or tragedy?


_**Hey! hi! welcome, thanks for viewing this! if you're reading my other Shinegeki no Kyjin fanfic, then just know I'll get back to it, but this is my post for the week. **_

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Time is always moving.

Funny, how I can't even begin to understand that, no matter how many years I've spent on this earth. I keep forgetting.

Time is always moving.

Each day, each hour, each minute- each second brings forth something new into the world, and you can never turn that second back, because it's already changed. Time has changed.

Tick tock.

As humans, they believe they're masters of time, because they believe they are the masters of everything. And who's to say otherwise? They have control of the seas, the air, the water. In 2,000 and some years, they've gain control of every aspect of nature in some way, shape or form.

Tick tock.

I am not human. My kind is not human, thought we look and talk and move as such. Maybe I choose the wrong words. Maybe we are humans, or just some sort of cousin to the human breed.

Tick tock.

Unlike humans, our skin doesn't cut so easily. Our bones don't wither as fast. Our strength doesn't recede as quickly, and our youth remains the same. I once met someone of our kind who was 50 but looked like an 18 year old and had the strength of a 20 year old muscle man.

Tick tock.

I can never go back to that time.

Tick tock.

In this cruel world, human don't have time for regrets.

Tick tock.

But I do.

Tick tock.

You don't know how much I want to go back to that time. You don't know what I would give to go back to it.

Tick tock.

You don't know.

Tick tock.

You don't know me at all.

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I first met Brian back in the 1800s, though I'm sure I probably ran into him centuries before. He had been a slave trader for the American south, selling off hundreds of Africans to those who had the coin. But he said he only took the job for the easy money and he only did it for 50 years. But I knew the truth. And yet, I still became his friend. I don't know why back then, and I'm pretty sure if asked me 50 years from now why I befriended him I'll give you the same answer.

And besides, it had only been for a short while, maybe 60 some years before we had to move on, look less suspicious. We can only fool you for so long.

.

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The second time I met Brian he was fighting in the American civil war. This time, he was fighting for the North, though I think he was just doing that to prove he was a humane person. I had been one of the many under his orders. I question how he found me out even now, but somehow he did. I was raised to the rank of Captain in no time once I met him again, mostly because he'd take me on so many missions.

Around this time, I met his mate, Talia. She was going under the name of Teresa back then, but she was a sweet lass, always caring for those in the hospital. She had an even temperament and a sweet nature, which explains why so many fell for her, why so many brightened at the sight of her.

It was easy to see that Brian and Talia loved each other very much. Whenever they held hands it was as if they were in their own world, one where no human or person of our kind could intrude upon. I was happy to serve them. I viewed them as the parents I never knew.

Parents I had always wished for.

.

.

The first time I met Bellia was in 1750s Italy. She was the daughter of a rich noble and a prostitute, and as it turned out, both of her parents were immortals. She was 12 then, barely hitting her immortal puberty.

For people like us, we age normally, or rather, like a human, until we reach the age of 12. We stop ageing then, but sometimes we continue to grow. Bellia was not one of those immortals. Once she reached 12 everything stopped.

I pitied her mostly because she raised herself on the streets, without the guidance of her parents. It's our custom that when we have a child we are obligated to take care of it, teach it our ways. But in some cases, a mother thinks she had given birth to a half human, half immortal being, and doesn't want it.

But Bellia was full immortal, maybe even more so than I was. She was strong than me, braver because of it, quick- witted and sharp tongued. More often than not it was her getting us out of a tricky situation, her getting us out of harm's way with a few quick jabs of her tongue. Maybe because she grew up on the streets of Italy, maybe because she was smart, maybe because she had better grasp of understanding her immortal nature than I did.

Either way, I took her in under the pretense of being a long lost uncle to her mother. She saw straight through my lie the moment I uttered it. But she kept quiet in front of the social worker, adding on to my lie with pleading looks and yearning eyes casted over to me from time to time.

She was a good actor.

But the moment everyone left she turned on me and said, "Now, we both know I'm not related to you. You don't have my cute nose," she stated in quick Italian. "So why don't you tell me the truth instead of feeding me goats balls' like you did them." She jerked her thumb towards the door.

Needless to say, I taught her about us.

I told her about her kind, about her people. I was surprised to learn that she knew a little, especially how to perform magic. She only used it to perform pick-pocketing tricks, but I taught her everything I knew about immortal magic. You can't imagine my shock when I saw how much magic the girls' body held within her, how much energy was untapped by her. She was like an ocean, deep and boundless.

For 50 years I trained her, not only in magic, but in how to hide in plain sight, how to mask her immortality from another of our kind. I also taught her how to read and write, how to act proper, how to be respectful, how to profit, how to save money. I taught her everything, stopping only when I had nothing left to teach her.

And with that, we said our good byes and wishes of good luck.

.

.

I met Mikasa again 43 years after the American civil war. It was the beginnings of the First World War, and the entire eastern side seemed to be in panic. But not the Americans. They were still trying to settle segregation laws between its white and its black communities. It was a giant mess, a hot spot of racism and persecution.

I met her in that mess. It was her hair.

Her hair was beautiful and dark like the night, straight flowing like a river, just as I remembered it. Her face was always unsmiling at first- maybe because she and her adoptive parents had sailed over her on the promise of free, cheap land. Lot of Immortals sailed over to American for that reason. Mostly because you weren't so close to each other, and for that reason we don't have to lie and keep changing our names. It's tiring, having to keep remembering who you're pretending to be as and who you really were.

I thought she was my mate.

I thought she was meant for me, because it was just so _easy_ with her.

But once war struck out, and I was sent off to fight, I realized that we were just like minded people- immortals- who were tired of change. Tired of people leaving us behind, tired of having to part, tired of everything. We weren't mates.

She broke things off. From time to time, we meet up again and spend 15 years or so catching up. We couldn't help it; we were best friends.

.

.

I think it was in the 70s and the 80s when I started to become what I am today. The 70s was a wild time, what with the 2nd world war coming to an end, the Berlin wall put up then taken down, the cold war between the U.S and Russia- sorry, Soviet Union. The beginnings of the 80s seemed to promise no different, with the shooting of the Korean Air lines flight 007 by Soviet Union, the boycott of the Moscow summer Olympics and the response boycott of the summer Olympics in California.

Back then, I started to do what every kid who looked my age was doing; drugs, alcohol, and parties. College parties were the best, yes, but high school parties had a sort of badass attitude to it. _Yeah! Fuck the police, baby, let's party!_ That was the common attitude in high school parties.

Luckily, I had a thing going for me. Girls wanted to date- or fuck- the half Japanese, half German kid with a perfect English accent. Had a sort of ring to it, I guess. Like I was the bad boy who was up for a joyride in the back seat of a truck, or the bad boy who was misunderstood. Either way, girls fell at my feet back then with only a mere look from me. Guys seemed to accept me because of who I fucked or what kinds of drugs I took or how smart I was in class. Not that they cared much about the latter.

But that was the opening to my life as a partier- jumping from party to party, from life to life, from place to place, never settling down for long, never sleeping with the same woman more than once. Eventually, just as the 90s rolled in, so did men into my bed, or my truck, or in a barn, because who the fuck cared? Not those of us rolling in the hay or in the bed, tangled limbs and hard lips pressing together in a messy kiss.

Not those of us who had too much time on their hands.

.

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"Hey, Erik!" I turn at the sound of my pseudo name, my eyes taking in my friend Arianna as she stumbles through the crowd, obviously very high and very drunk. Bodies around her are preoccupied with dry humping and thrusting into each other in a sort of dance that borderlines on the dance part and were more on the sexual aspect.

I pull my scarf tighter around my neck, nervous about it falling off and revealing my scars. At the same time, my friend falls on me, her ample breasts pushing into my abdomen.

"Erik," Arianna pants, her eyes glazed over as she looks up at me. "Erik, you're really sexy, you know?" she takes in my dyed red hair, tied up in a short pony tail, and my green eyes covered in blue contacts. I raise my dark eyebrows at her. "Arianna," I say, trying to pry her hands off of me. But she's really strong when she's high, or maybe I don't have any real fight in me.

"Erik…"she whines, tugging my head down and whispering into my ear. "Let's have a three way…"

I sigh, relenting. She drags me along by the arm, searching the crowd for a willing partner.

.

.

It's not the first time she's asked me to do this. And I'm pretty sure it won't be the last. Hell, when we first met it was the first thing she said to me. "Ezra, let's have a three way," she said, not even drunk or high. It was barely into the 90s and she was already saying that.

Of course, the first thing I said back was "When?'

Now, though, at least 20 years later, she doesn't say it so often. Only if she gets high and drunk does she ask for it, and by then I'm either too tired or too preoccupied with my own partner for the night. She asks for it on rare occasions; I say yes on even rarer ones.

That's mostly because I don't like the feeling of getting up in the morning and not knowing the person I'm sharing a bed with. Not knowing whose house I'm in, whose bed I defiled. Most times I usually get up during the night, leave if I don't recognize the room I was in, and go home. It happens so often that I do it on autopilot. Drunk, high, or otherwise, I can always somehow drive myself home, prepare the weapons I'll need in the morning to fight my head from cracking open, and fall asleep.

I've done this for 30 some years, maybe more.

And every day I wake up the same. Down some pills, take a shower, brush my teeth, eat. Every day I wake up with that same lost feeling, not knowing why I was meant to exist, why I was put on this world. Then I start to wonder about the little things; who hosting the next party, which club to go to next, when the mortgage was due and hey, is that throw up on my shirt? Boy, I need to do my laundry.

And sometimes, when I'm doing my laundry at the nearest Laundromat, sticking my clothes haphazardly into the washing machine and pay, take my ipod or my phone out and stick my ear buds in, lean against an open dryer and watch my clothes spin, I think about my mother. How would she react to me, parties by night, normal 20 year old by day? Would she be proud? Happy? Disappointed?

No. She'd probably yell at me for not doing my laundry sooner, and shout at me for not dying with the rest of them.

.

.

This morning was no different; although now I had Arianna and another girl in my bed. I grimace over the mess we made on the bed before carefully removing myself. Arianna moans a little before reaching out with her hands and finding the other girl. She cuddles her face between the girls' larger breasts, sighing contently before returning to the land of sleep. Her dark brown locks splay out on my bed like a blood splatter, something I've seen way too often.

I flinch.

This time, because Arianna had gotten wasted before I could get a drink, I don't need my pills promising immediate relief from hangovers. But that also means I can remember everything clearly from last night, every moan and cry of pleasure uttered between us three. I grimace again, and head towards my bathroom.

I live in Maisonette apartment in New York, given to me by my adoptive parents who died a few years back. I liked them a lot- and now I feel as though I'm tarnishing their memory. I' pretty sure they didn't give me this apartment so I can return to it drunk or high or wasted or all three. Maybe they did give it to me with the hopes I'd bring a girl home, but one to stay and have children with, not to have a one night stand.

As I wash away the evidence of last night, I start to wish desperately that this wasn't my daily life. I wish I could've been the boy my recent parents would've been proud of. The man Bellia once told me I could be. The friend and son Brian and Talia would've wanted.

Instead, here I am, two girls in my bed, basically a mansion to my name, countless money in my bank accounts, and hot spray scalding over my skin, the droplets accumulating and sticking like my sins to it.

.

.

I stayed in the shower for a while. I know from a thousand years of experience that water and heat won't help me. But the heat was so nice, a break away from my cold daily life, that I stayed standing in the shower for a long time. Long enough that I forgot about time again.

By the time I had gotten out, it was 12:00 in the afternoon. Damn. I reach to grab my towel that I always throw onto the bathroom counter, knocking several bottles of shaving cream and dye and pills to the floor. Hissing, I reach down and grab a them, placing them back on the counter at random. A scrap of paper falls off of one of the bottles that I pick up and I stare at it for a few seconds. Placing the bottles on the counter, I reach for the paper slowly, grabbing it and sitting down on the cold floor.

I turn it over to one side, reading the phone number written hastily on it. Not recognize it, I shrug, thinking it was probably from one of my old 80s lays. I'm about to throw it away when a memory pops up in my head.

_Brian, with his dark eyes staring into my contact covered ones, blinking widely in realization. _

"_Eren…" his gruff voice sending tingles down my spine. _

"_If you ever need help…" he takes out a paper and scribbles a phone number and address on it. _

I blink my green eyes widely.

"_Come to this address…" he hands the number across the counter to me. _

I look back to the counter, the other half of the paper floating under another bottle.

"…_and you'll have it." _

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"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter angrily to myself. My fingers are bone-white in their grip on the steering wheel, my arms stiff, and my body pressing hard into the seat. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

After I found the address, I quickly jumped into the shower and scrubbed myself, finding some clean clothes on the floor of my bedroom. I quickly grab my wallet and several pairs of socks and shoes, throwing them into a trash bag I grabbed from the kitchen. I then grabbed all of my underwear, two pairs of pants, shirts I liked, and anything I felt I needed. I wasn't coming back. Not for a long while, I thought.

At least my years of immortality helped me pack everything quickly and quietly. Finally amounts to something.

The very last thing I do is throw a blanket over Arianna and leave a note by the bed, saying I was leaving and not to follow me. I know she won't be able to. I never told her about how I felt inside, since she seemed so happy with what she was doing now. Maybe someday, if it actually works, I can come back to her and offer her what Brian offered me; help.

For now, though, I kiss her forehead fleetingly and close the door quietly behind me.

Now, here I was, two weeks on the road, closing in on the address, and parked in a little town on the outskirts of society. My fingers tap nervously on the wheel, my sighs and shuddering breaths filling the air. I roll down my passenger window to let in some air (not that having it closed will kill me, but someone might start to wonder. Plus, the fresh air feels nice.)

I tug on my scarf again, my other hand finally letting go of the steering wheel and turning the radio on. Thankfully, the last time I drove I wasn't in a partying mood, and some smooth jazz is playing. I think it was Ella Fitzgerald singing "Imagination," because the first words I hear are "_Imagination is funny…its makes a cloudy day sunny…"_

Arianna doesn't like the fact that I listen to jazz music. She liked to say that I was an old man in an 15 year olds body. I gave her a look and said "Bitch I might be."

Personally, though, I don't see anything wrong with jazz; its soothing, talking about love and hardships, tragedies and wishes in a siren-like sound. Singers sounded amazing when the beat wasn't hiding their voice. Orchestras sounded wonderful to my ears. Back in the 1700s I worked as an assistant to a theatre, watching operas and Greek tragedies all the time. Later, I listen to music during the World Wars, played in a marching band when I was in high school in the 70s. Jazz music was the one that stood out for me, as well as swing music.

"_Makes a bee think of honey…Just as I…think of you…_

_Imagination…is crazy…you're whole perspective gets hazy…_

_Starts you asking a daisy…what to do…."_

I hum along to the song, trying to work up my nerves. At the same time, I watch the people walk by me and into the general store I was parked in front of. _"what to do…?"_

"_have you ever felt a gentle-_" I jump when someone slams their car door beside my passenger side, huffing as they cackle their way into the store with their friend. I stare after them, my eyes wide. _That's a good sign as any to stop wasting time._ I think. I roll up my window and leave, driving out onto the road again.

Not noticing dark eyes watching me leave with a cold expression.

.

.

It's official. I'm bad with directions.

I get lost a few dozen times on my way there, trying to convince my mind that it wasn't a sign. I work up my nerve again and ask for directions from a guy behind the register in a drug store. It only ends up confusing me more and I give up, just continuing to drive down the street I was on.

The scenery was nice. Wide open plains of Montana, blue skies with traces of clouds here and there. The trees seem to reach up and touch the sky with their tips, their leaves fluttering the breeze. Half focused on the road, I allow myself to stare.

It kind of reminds me of home- and I mean home, home. My home that wasn't a picture in a photograph, wasn't some painting Picasso or some shit painted. Home was the long house by the sea, by the cliffs, by the mountains. Home was the piece of nature, piece of earth, piece of sky. Home was my mother standing over a pot and making supper, my brothers and sisters playing outside in the sea breeze. Home was riding out on a horse beside my father, across wide plains like these ones, answering the call of the village chief.

Home was-

If I hadn't jumped out of my thoughts just then, I might've run into him.

Him, with his cold dark glare, his grey long sleeve V-neck, his dark blue pants that hugged his legs in all the right places.

I slam my foot on the break and turn my stirring wheel quickly, so my path doesn't cross his, and instead, head straight into a tree.

.

.

"What do you mean, there's no Auto repairman!?" I cry.

The shorter man with cold dark eyes blinks up at me. "Exactly as I said. We don't have one in our town."

"Are you crazy?!" what kind of town doesn't have an Auto repair or a shop to take your car to?

"No. Well,…" the man tilts his head slightly as he thinks. "We did have one, but only one. Ah, but he went away to study at the university for a few months…" I can just see this man's thinking process clearly. "No, it's…Its fine. I'll manage." I say. I run my fingers through my hair, sighing irritably.

How the hell am I going to make it to Brain's now? Walking? I'm not even sure where I am. Not that I have anything against walking, its just-

"You know Brian?" I jump, realizing too late that I was thinking aloud. "a-ah, yeah. I know _a _Brian, and apparently he lives around here, so-"

The man's cold stare seems to stare through mine. "Around here, there's only one Brian." He interrupts. "So I think it's in your best interest to come with me." He reaches over and grabs my wrist. "Wha-" my sentence is cut off by his harsh tug, dragging me after him. His hold is only slightly bruising by human standard. If I wanted to, I could probably pull my arm out. But since I've spent at least 30 or so years partying instead of getting fit or putting on some muscle, I doubt I can even jerk my hand slightly away, much less put up a fight.

He drags me through the woods, over thick bushes and grass towards a horse tethered to a tree. Finally letting go of his hold on me, he climbs up. I stare at my wrist, rubbing it gently with two fingers as I examine what damage he could've have done.

"Come on," I hear him say, before his hand grabs my wrist again and pull me up. "wait-"I try to protest, but he already has me lying across his lap and cantering away. I'm forced to either slip right off or hold on. My arms seem to make my decision for me, since before I know it my hands are clinging to his arms, my fingers feeling his large muscles tighten and release as we ride.

.

.

Back when I was a kid, long before I hit puberty, there was this dog my father owned. He'd growl at everyone who approached him, baring his teeth at a curious tot, and bark at any other dog. He seemed threatening to my parents, so they kept repeating to me, over and over, don't go near it. But whenever I'd approached, he'd whine at me, crawling on his stomach towards me and lick my feet through the fence. He was really sweet to me.

So one day, I raced over to the fence, climbed over it, and stood in front of him.

My father screamed at me, yelling for help. He was convinced the dog would eat me.

But he didn't.

Instead, that dog, rising to its full height, its shoulders at my eyes level, looked me straight in the eyes with its cold yellow stare. Hesitant now, I reach out a hand for it to sniff.

He sniffed at it twice before snorting and sneezing, then licked it, and my face. I giggled. My hand rested on its forehead. "You're not scary at all," I said. The dog barked softly, before following me outside the fence. It's rough fur brushed against my shoulders gently.

.

.

Halfway through the ride, my capturer pulls me up so my ass isn't hanging off the horse, and instead, is on his lap. My legs are still dangling off of one side of the horse, but it doesn't seem to mind. My back now rests against his arm that curves around me to hold the reins. My hands are relinquished from their duty of keeping me steady.

I stare up at the man who kidnapped me, feeling as though I can remember his face from somewhere. But before I can put my finger on it, he pulls his horse to a stop, sliding off the horse and taking me with him. He holds me bridal style for a brief moment before setting me on my feet, turning his attention to his horse.

The moment I step onto the ground, I feel tingles run up my spine. I shake it off, thinking it's just my jitters getting to me.

I observe the farm house he brought me to. It was beautiful; a two story house with a patio that curved over to its right wing, the add-on made of stone. The house itself was wooden, painted white, with 4 windows in the front, 6 windows on its right wing, and many countless windows in its left wing add-on.

Past the house was a wooden barn with wings added to each of its side. I follow after the man who brought me here because hey, he knows where he's going, so why not? But he turns around the moment I make a step to follow and shakes his head. "Go inside the farm house." He points to it, and when I turn my head to look at it he gives me a push on the back.

_Fuck it_, I think, heading towards the house. A pit-bull, with a sleek dark grey coat and whit underbelly and white socks, runs up to me, barking. I give it a look, and it shuts up mid-bark, ear perking up and bluish eyes going wide. It licks my shoes and my fingers in greeting before following me up the steps, sitting obediently when I ring the bell.

I look at its tags as the dog opens, reading one a part of its name before I look up.

"Be-"

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.

I've been to war several times.

War is not the sound of guns firing. It is not the sound of bombs and explosions. No, no. That's what a massacre is. War is the sound of men shouting in the night or in the day, the sound of flesh burning in the sun or being sliced under a cold pale white moon. It is the sound of swords clashing, blades humming, the thud of dead bodies falling to the floor, the _crash_ of glass or wood, the cackle of fire as it burns everything in its path. War is the sound of death.

And right now, war is the sound of a door opening. War is the sound of boots sinking into creaking wood floors, the turn of a golden handle, the protesting creaks and sighs of the door. It is the sound of someone gasping, the sound of the screen door screeching open.

It is the sound of my name being spoken by a face I'd thought I'd never see again.

"Eren!" Brian exclaims. He wraps his arms around me, his head only coming up to my chest. His hair tickles my chin in a familiar way, and my eyes start to water. "Brian…" I whisper.

"Hey Eren!" he steps back, smile fading from his face as he takes in my face. "What's wrong?"

It's been centuries since I've felt this way. Decades since I've felt alive. Is this what it means to exist? What it means to live day by day, not night by night? Is this what it means to wait not for the next party and get wasted, and in the morning regret everything, but instead, for the next family gathering, the next time you can see beloved family members and friends?

Tears well up in my eyes and I have to swallow around a lump. "H-hey, Brainy…" I hate how my voice comes out shaky, but Brian smiles all the same, especially when I let slip his old nickname. "Talia," he calls, his eyes remaining on my face. I snivel a little bit.

"What is it?" she says, coming into view through the door way, wiping her hands with her kitchen towel. "Who's this?" she says, dark eyes taking in my red hair, blue contacts, dark rimmed-black glasses and deep red scarf around my kneck. I, in turn, take in the apron she's wearing over a violet blue dress, her blonde curls tied up in a bun on her head. A few curls are loose, and she brushes them back in an attempt to look presentable.

"This, dear," he claps me on the shoulder, standing side-by-side with me as he introduces me to his mate. "Is Eren." He smiles at her.

She drops her towel to cover her dropped jaw with her hands.

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.

My mother once married me off to the daughter of the chief. She was a rebellious lass; always taunting me, always teasing me, seducing me in the bedroom. She was my little minx, and together we had a beautiful baby daughter named Jofrid. And it was the three of us; Einar(me), Halldis, and Jofrid. We lived in a long house together, close to the village and my family, but not too close. The sea, the mountains, the cliffs, and the plains seemed like our only companions, although we both knew the village was not too far of a ride away.

It was our blessing. And our curse.

We spent 5 years there. The first was just us, and the other 4 were with Jofrid. She was so sweet, a little rambunctious like her mother, but still. She had my eyes, Halldis used to say. And your nose, I'd say back.

"Are you sure?" she said, hand flying to touch her nose. "And not my lips?" she teased. I kissed her. "No one had lips like yours, love." I'd growled at her. She giggled, then darted from my grasp to take care of Jofrid. Leaving me wanting.

One day, when I was away fishing, bandits came and ransacked our village, killing any who tried to run and warn us. After 3 days, they ran into my home and absolutely destroyed it, killing my wife when she tried to fight back. When I returned, Jofrid was crying from in a barrel that Halldis had hidden her in. I covered her eyes from the sight of her violated mother's body and jumped on my horse, riding to my parent's long house.

I never went back to that house again, except once to take my beloved wife's body and cast it off to sea, to find the edge of the world. I shot a flaming arrow into the boat I cast her off in, setting her body aflame.

Jofrid lived to the age of 60, a surprise to everyone, since no one back then lived that long.

Well. No one who wasn't immortal.

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"Come, come in," Brian says, dragging me in with his arm. I stumble on the threshold, my eyes taking in the hallway lit by a small crystal chandler. Wide swooping stairs waited at the edge of the hall, and two archways awaited either side of me. The one on the left opened up into a large living room, and the other opened into the kitchen. A nudge on my leg makes me look down and realize the dog had followed me in.

"Oh, don't mind her, Eren. " Talia says, playing the perfect hostess.

"You know I love dogs, 'Lia." I say, smirking at her. She giggles. "Come," Brian beckons, motioning with an open palm to the couch. "There's someone I want you to meet." He sits down beside me, and Talia races back to the kitchen with "Oh! My chicken!" I stare after her, memories of long ago filling my mind.

"Eren." A new voice says. I jerk my head around to meet a crystal blue gaze. Pale white hands close shut a book with a loud _thud_. "I am Irwin Smith." The blonde man introduces, reaching out and smooth porcelain hand. Muscles, almost bigger than the man who kidnapped me today, ripple under a clean white button up shirt. I reach out my hand and am surprised to feel calluses instead of the smooth white skin I was expecting. Irwin smiles, knowing.

I blush.

"I'm sorry for my bluntness, Eren," he says in a cool tone. "But how did you get here?"

The pit-bull that followed me in comes to rest at my feet, waving its tail slightly when I shuffle my feet around. "A-ah…that is…" I mumble. "U-um…one of your…" Stable hands? Colleague? I didn't know who he was. "A man, wearing a grey long sleeve V-neck and riding one of your, I think, horses, brought me here when my car broke down."

"That would be Levi," Irwin says. "Although I can't see why he brought you here…"

I smile and point at Brian. "I was coming to see him."

"Brian? Do you know this person?' Irwin turns his cool gaze at Brian, and strangely I feel relieved.

"Yes," Brian says, clapping me on the shoulder. "I know him. We met back in, what was it, 1854?" he sends a questioning look my way and I nod shyly. " But I had no idea he was coming over today."

"Ah," Irwin says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "I see."

Based on how easily Brian gave out what time we met, I think it's safe to assume that this man was one of us. Immortals are not allowed to tell humans what we are. We did that once, and it led to the greatest, bloodiest, unspeakable war the world had ever seen. My father used to tell me stories about it on Samhain. I shiver now at the thought of it.

"How old are you, Eren?" Irwin asks, jarring me from my thoughts. Its seems that's been happening a lot today.

It's hard for an immortal to guess their age. Because of the different ways to gauge your age, because of the different cultures and traditions, it's hard to tell someone of a different race how old you are correctly. Now though, since you're as old as however many birthdays you've had, it's still tricky, but I can tell accurately.

"I'm about…250 years old. " I say, counting my fingers. It's a lie. But I don't want immortals like Irwin to start looking at me weird.

Brian bumps his shoulder within affectingly. "Finally passed the hundreds, I see," he says. Brian was three hundred or so years old, the last time I met him. And that was seventy some years ago, so he's nearing his four hundreds already.

"Love," Irwin says suddenly. I turn toward the direction he was looking, my eyes taking in the short blonde boy with azure blue eyes standing in a second archway, on the opposite end of the couch.. The boy steps forward, walking straight toward Irwin and kissing him on the cheek. "Who is this?" I'm startled, slightly, by the young voice of the boy.

"This Is Eren, a friend of Brian and Talia. I'm considering inviting him to stay for a while." Irwin introduces and explains. The boy yawns cutely, and Irwin's hand reaches up to his cheek. "I'm sorry I woke you up from your nap…"

Okay, seriously, what the fuck, they look like an old married couple. I hiss at them inwardly, fighting to keep a neutral expression on my face. Cut the couple crap already!

"Sorry about this," Brian whispers into my ear. "They get like this sometimes."

What strikes me even more is how Brian is reacting to two males kissing in front of him. "Are you…" I whisper to him, covering my mouth. "Alright…with…this?" I gesture towards Irwin and the boy.

Brain gives me a look. "You of all people should know that we immortals don't care. A mate is a mate, no matter the history or the sex." I lean back, shocked.

"Eren," I turn again to face Irwin, who's holding the boy in his lap. "I was just discussing with my mate if we should invite you to stay here." I blink, tilting my head to the side. "Although, I feel I must tell you what this is before I offer the invitation. Whether or not you accept it is up to you, then." I nod, and turn when I feel a presence beside me.

In the archway, the one I walked into through with Brian, the man apparently named Levi crosses his arms, leaning against the wooden arch. I stare at him for a second before turning back to face Irwin. "What this place is…is a rest stop, if you will. A sort of place for immortals to come and rest for as long as they want. If they need healing, we offer such, if they need time, we offer that as well. If they need a job, etc. we offer everything. Our only requests are that you attend our classes that we have, as well as respect our students."

Classes?

"We offer courses that focus on our magic, on the earth, and how those two combine." The boy says. "Basically, we're mentors, not therapists. We teach and take care of our students, allowing them to solve their own problems. What you share is what you share, and we pry no further. It's up to you to take the rests of the steps." He slides off of his mate's lap with a chaste kiss on Irwin's cheek. 'Please excuse me," he says then. "I'll need to be checking on Talia."

He walks away, passing Levi and heading into the kitchen.

"So, Eren," I blink as Irwin cross his legs, leans back into his chair and links his fingers in front of his mouth. "What do you say? Keep in mind that you are invited to join us, not obligated. You can rest here for a few nights to make up your mind, but know that you'll be treated as a regular student. To get the taste of what we offer, so to speak. Or you can leave, right after we get your car fixed."

Brian looks at me. "So what'll it be, Eren?" Irwin asks.

"I-"

.

.

I got married again, 60 years after Halldis died. This time, my wife died in child birth, the usual curse of mortals bearing immortal children. Halldis had been hardy; my second wife was not.

She was a petite girl, of French blood. She was married to me by her parents, and she loved me dearly, despite how little attention I paid her. She thought of me as some kind of broken record that had once played beautiful music and needed to be put back together again. I amused her, letting her think she was the only thing I needed. And that's how she got pregnant.

And that's why some higher being took her and my baby away.

After she died, I swore to myself that I would never marry again, or if I did, respect my next wife, treat her like a queen she was. I decided to go with the former; I cast aside my rich status, making it seem as though I died an early death, and instead became a servant to the royal family. For a few centuries that are how I lived, being the unnoticeable servant, the soldier, the slave. I suffered under many hands, bore many scars, and underwent some persons' sick minded game. I've seen the pure…

…and I've seen the ugly.

.

.

"I'll show you to your room," Irwin says, rising. I jump to my feet, my back straight as he walks past. I don't know what it is, but I feel as though I'm some sort of meager soldier in the presence of my commander. I've felt this feeling several times, during the world wars and some honorable mentioned battles, as well as the not so honorable mentioned.

As I follow Irwin up the stairs, my fingers brush the handrail. I'm awed by how smooth it feels, how it shines in the afternoon sun that flowed in from the windows. "Maple," I turn to look at Irwin, and I realized that we stopped. "The handrails' made of maple."

I look at the handrails again. That would explain the gold brown glow. And how smooth it was…

I look up to Irwin again, who raises his eyebrow in question, and I nod. He turns on his heel and climbs the stairs, me following close behind.

When we reach the second floor and move down the hall way, I'm surprised that he leads me to a second staircase. He opens a small door to reveal a simple room; a mattress on the floor with beautiful dark blue covers, a chair on the far end, pushed up against the wall, and a corner of the far end wall protruding out.

The ceiling was sloped, with 2 windows on each side to let in as much sun as you can. Air conditioning vents ran across the east wall, but it was the windows themselves that amazed me. I quickly walk towards one, pushing it gently. And the entire window moves, the top sticking out. "It's more efficient this way," Irwin explains. I listen to him halfheartedly. "The window itself moves in a circle. That's how it opens. You can lock it closed here," he taps a small simple latch at the center of the window pane.

"That's really cool," I say, mesmerized. Irwin smiles. "I'm glad you like it. This is gonna be your room, for as long as you stay."

"Even if I stay as a student?" I ask. This room was much too glamorous for the life of a 'student.'

"Even if, yes." Irwin assures me. I raise my eyebrows at him. 'I've got a feeling about you, Eren. I think you're the harbinger of many things to come."

"More like the Harbinger of many bad things to come," I mutter under my breath.

Irwin tilts his head at my words, his blue gaze calculating. "Do you really think that, Eren?"

"Yes," I reply simply. "What with all the bad that has happened in my life, what else am I supposed to think?" I open my palms at my side in a helpless gesture.

"If you think so," Irwin says. I turn around, thinking our conversation is done. "however," I stop in my tracks. "I believe that the things that have happened in your life- all the bad things, the tragedies- came to an end the moment you stepped foot in this house. No," I turn around, looking at him. "The moment you stepped on this lot, it came to an end." My eyes widen. "You felt it, didn't you?" he smiles, and then places a hand beside the window, looking out of it.

"This house, like you, has seen many things. It, too, has gone through some horrible, evil things. But, I think, with you here, Eren, it will change. Just like you." He looks at me again. "Now, are you ready to tell me how old you really are?" he says it with his commander-presence, as if he expects the honest answer, nothing more.

"Seven hundred and sixty four," My mouth answers him immediately, before I can cover it with my hands. And when I do, I've already realized it's too late. "Seven hundred and sixty four. That's how old I am."

Irwin raises his eyebrow a time. "You have seen many things, Eren." He sighs. "And now that you've shared that much, I can tell you this," he lowers his voice and leans in, "I'm 1,700 years old."

"WHA-?" I cry, shocked. "No way!"

He smiles. "I really am. I was born in 374 A.D."

"But-you- You look so young!"

He chuckles at how red my face is. "I know, right? A millennia of life, and I barely look a day over 40." He pats his chest. "I guess I'm just a testament to how long we live. Well," he turns around, waving to me briefly. "I'll be leaving you to unpack your things. Dinner will be ready soon, so I suggest you wash up. There's a bathroom on the far end of your room." And with that, he closes the door, leaving me alone to my thoughts.

.

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* * *

_**A/n: thank you for your reading *bows***_


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